


Something Somewhere (the I'll smother you with my love remix)

by Skitz_phenom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Modern Era, Murder, Post-Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Reincarnation, Remix, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-07 10:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11056740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom
Summary: Arthur is affected by his office romance more deeply than perhaps he should be, but he can't help himself; everything with Merlin is perfect...Until he witnesses the unthinkable.





	Something Somewhere (the I'll smother you with my love remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [claudine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudine/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I'll smother you with my love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021747) by [claudine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudine/pseuds/claudine). 



> [Claudine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/claudine/pseuds/claudine), I was a bit spoiled for choice when it came to choosing a fic to remix, but oh my goodness this one stood out! More like it stood on its hind legs and snapped at my fingers and then bit down hard, and I knew I had to work with such a fabulous, powerful and twisty piece of writing. Of course, that was its own intimidation, because it's so damn good. I was utterly inspired and I only hope this offering pleases you! 
> 
> So many mountains of thanks to [daroh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh) for the hand-holding, cheerleading, last-minute beta and for being so, so right about the punctuation! (<\-- see what I did there? :P)

There’s just something about him.

Arthur can’t put his finger on what it is… something in the sine curve of his smile, or the way the light catches that cloudless-sky blue of his eyes. Maybe it’s his laugh, so pert and fucking sharp and yet kind of dorky, or the way that sometimes he seems to look at Arthur like he knows him. Like he knows all of him, to his roots or his soul…

When Merlin looks at him like that it’s like he’s seeing someone else, someone that only he knows and it makes Arthur feel exposed but at the same time, like they share some secret part of himself. Some part he has yet to discover. It’s heady and terrifying and freeing all at once.

He finds himself wanting to know Merlin, to spend time with him. When Merlin says, “Good morning,” to Arthur’s warmly spoken, “Morning, Merlin,” it’s like he’s speaking paragraphs that Arthur can’t quite suss out.

Arthur can’t help the way his glances linger, or the proprietary way he sometimes hooks an arm around the back of Merlin’s chair during meetings or at the pub. It’s easy to wait until he sees Merlin walk past his door, pack of cigarettes already in his hand, to call out a friendly, “Hold up! I’ll join you.” And Merlin teases him with feigned impatience while he struggles to get his own out of the pocket of his jacket.

And maybe he struggles because sometimes Merlin offers with a laugh, “You can bum one of mine, you cheap git.” And he happily accepts because Merlin will light one and then hand it off, the filter just slightly damp from his lips. And they don’t always talk, but the air between them is filled with shared breaths and mingling smoke and charged with conversation and a million things that go unsaid.

The first time they fuck he’s hopeful, but not expecting anything when Merlin invites him up to his flat. It’s only been about two weeks and he’s not quite sure if this is ‘something’ yet (although somehow he feels like it’s been his entire lifetime). They fall into it, though, kissing and kissing and clumsy and laughing and messy and hotter than anything he’s known.  

In some ways, when Merlin kisses him, and he gets a hand on Merlin’s cock, it’s like they’ve been together an age and it only surprises him in the way that it doesn’t surprise him, how right it feels. Making Merlin come feels like an achievement though, like victory, and when he rubs off against the smooth plane of Merlin’s thigh, it’s not the friction on his cock that gets him off, but the way Merlin grasps him so greedily even as he gasps wetly into Arthur’s throat.

It’s like that cements it between them, though. He’s hesitant to offer sweet promises or say things too quickly, and sometimes it scares him how strongly he feels so soon, but it’s easy between them in a way that’s so, so right.  And it stays easy. It’s cigarette breaks, and terrible coffee and a shared flat with an unkempt garden they both keep promising to fix-up and either of them botching dinner and ordering take-away because they both suck at cooking, and the kind of sex that makes him wish he’d done gymnastics when he was younger because holy-hell he didn’t know he could come like that.

Even Merlin’s jealousy is something he doesn’t take too much to heart. Mordred is young and eager, and Arthur can tell there’s a bit of hero-worship going on there, shining in those crystal-blue eyes. But he’s a nice enough kid, and Arthur feels rather obliged to take him under his wing. He knows he doesn’t have to reassure Merlin that his affections are true, but he finds himself wanting to all the same.

And maybe he plays it up a bit. To tease Merlin a little. “Mordred’s really catching on quick.” He’ll say, to see that spark in Merlin’s eye. Or, “Maybe we should invite Mordred ‘round to the pub sometime?” and grin to watch the way that Merlin’s lip curls, like some kind of wild creature. It’s not to hurt, but only because it’s nice to feel quite so wanted.

It’s late on a Wednesday, when he asks Doug in the hallway if he’s seen Mordred. He’s got a stack of files that he needs organized, and Mordred’s always good for busy work and putting in a bit of over-time. He’s not even suspicious when Doug says that he thinks he saw Merlin and Mordred talking earlier, but he’s not seen either since.  Still, it’s not uncommon for Merlin to knock off early mid-week. He’s doing research for a project and sometimes likes to get out from underneath the bright fluorescent glare and the stifle of cubicle life.   

It’s a bit concerning later, when there’s a chill drizzle and Merlin’s late for supper. He sends a text: “Curry getting cold. Ur missing Coronation St.” Merlin’s quick to reply with a: “Ur ridiculout. Ridiculous. Whatev. Got caught up at library. Gonna finish these notes. Be home soon <3" and Arthur’s mollified.

It wears off, though, for some reason he can’t quite name. He ventures out into the rain – pissing down now in earnest – and passes by the library for no reason he can think of except that his feet keep walking. There’s a rubbish dump down the end of a long alley, the front end packed with empty skips and graffitied bins and stacks of wobbly pallets and one light post bezel is shattered and the other flickering desultorily. It’s the opposite of inviting. It’s there he’s drawn though, some unnamed concern wrapped around him tighter than his water-logged peacoat.

When he finds Merlin, when he sees what Merlin’s doing, it takes his brain a very long time to fathom, to process, to accept what his eyes are showing it. Because it… doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

Yes, that’s Merlin. Even through a veil of rain and the ill-lit gloom, he’d know Merlin anywhere. But that lump at Merlin’s feet – sodden, dark and shapeless… only the palest curve of a forehead visible beneath twisted, ropy coils of black, the plump roll of a still boyish cheek, lips purpled and slack, and though Arthur can’t tell from this distance, he knows that blankly-staring eye is crystal blue. And somehow, despite the rain, there is red… too much of it. Red that should look black, but still manages to glisten bright crimson over that too-white skin.

He stands, still as stone, frozen in inaction as Merlin somehow moves the rubbish around and manhandles the lifeless – Jesus _fuck_ – body. And, he does a good job of hiding it. There’s not a sign of any kind of disturbance once he’s done, and Arthur has no fucking clue how Merlin still looks so fucking put-together.

It’s the familiarity, the ease, the comfort as he wipes his hands together like it’s a job well done that drives the first real spike of fear into Arthur’s heart.

Pale, almost glowing, almost ethereal in the gloomy damp, Merlin’s face when he turns to see Arthur is blank at first. So curiously blank. Then he startles, flinching back and ducking his head like he’s expecting a blow. His eyes go so, so wide.

Arthur’s mouth falls open, jaw hanging as he feels a thousand words strangling him as they try to push past a tangle in his throat.

“Arthur, I–”

“What the fuck, Merlin?” he grates out, nearly an hysterical screech. “What the fuck?”

Merlin holds out his hands, spreading them, placating. They’re yards apart still, but Arthur’s the one who flinches now, stepping back, foot splashing in an ankle-deep puddle.

“Arthur, please, let me–”

Arthur bolts.

He scrambles on slick stone and loose gravel and his feet get twisted around each other when he turns away, but somehow he manages to push them down, shove them at the earth and launch himself forward and he runs and runs and fucking runs.

And it’s stupid, it’s so fucking stupid, but he runs back to their flat. And he stands gasping in their too-small kitchen where the take-away containers are still on the table, his half-full pint damp with condensation where he’d left it earlier. The telly is still on, flickering gaudily in front of their lumpy sofa, though he’d turned the rest of the lights off when he hurried out. The flashes of color and bright and noise are a startling chiaroscuro in the dark, assaulting his senses. He staggers to the bedroom, stumbling and not quite making it onto the bed when he falls forward. His knees hit the green rug with its concentric blue and purple circles that match the fucking curtains and the bedclothes because he’s sometimes posh like that.

He turns, shifts, feels like his limbs won’t cooperate and finally flops back against the side of the bed. He presses his face into the blue and purple comforter, still tossed and messy because Merlin never makes the bed. It smells like them: like his over-priced aftershave and Merlin’s all-natural body wash and their sweat and sex and fucking curry and cigarettes even though they try to blow the smoke out the window.

A sob catches at the back of his throat, burning his nostrils and stinging his eyes and scraping his throat raw when it finally escapes, and he lets that fucking blue and purple comforter soak up the tears and snot and drool while he gasps and chokes and screams wordlessly into it.

Because it was _perfect_. It was so fucking perfect, and so fucking right and he doesn’t know what he hates more: Merlin for ruining that perfection, that rightness, or himself for feeling more sorrow over _that_ loss, than the fact that his fucking boyfriend murdered someone.

No, not _someone_. Mordred. Wide-eyed, innocent Mordred who idolized Arthur and worked harder than half the full-time employees and laughed at Arthur’s stupid fucking jokes. Mordred, who he felt a kind of big-brotherly fondness for, and who he’d sometimes been a bit overly-affectionate towards, to playfully taunt Merlin, raise his hackles, just to see that flicker of green in his eyes.

Was it the teasing? Had he pushed too far? Did he _make_ this happen?

His stomach clenches, spasms but he must’ve vomited at some point during his pell-mell dash away from the rubbish dump because nothing comes up but the acid burn of bile at the base of his throat.

“Arthur.”

He has no idea how long Merlin’s been there, watching.  Maybe just a minute, or maybe he showed up right on Arthur’s heels and has been there this whole time. He doesn’t react when Merlin says, “Arthur,” again, in that oh-so-soft, gentle voice.

“Please,” Merlin goes on, and his voice is tremulous, shaking the same way that Arthur’s heart is shaking. “Please look at me.”

But he can’t. He squeezes his eyes tight, pressing harder into the comforter, feeling the give of the mattress and the firm line of the bedframe against his chin. “You killed him, Merlin.”

There’s a sigh, and a very long silence, and then Merlin says, “Yes, but don’t you want to know why?”

And God help him, Arthur does! He wants to understand this, to make some semblance of sense out of the fucking chaos his life has become.

Fingers alight on Arthur’s shoulder, timidly fluttering, hot little points of light against his bare skin. He must’ve stripped off his jacket, his soaked Henley. He doesn’t remember doing that. Maybe that’s why he’s shivering in his damp jeans and sodden trainers.

“Why?” he finally croaks out, hating himself a little bit more for asking.

He hears more than sees Merlin settle on the hardwood floor next to him. Those fingers linger on the point of his shoulder even though he knows he should push them away. He hears the squeaking twist and stretch of fabric near his ear, warp and weft threads straining, and knows that Merlin’s gripping tight to that damn comforter, caging him in.

“You see,” Merlin begins slowly, his voice almost sing-song, like he’s telling Arthur a bedtime story, not explaining why he brutally murdered their co-worker.  “You and I, we have this destiny. And it’s older than both of us, older than time really, and I’ve been waiting for centuries for you to return to me. And I’ve lived my life a hundred times over, Arthur. And so has Mordred.  And he’s why I lost you in the first place. Why I keep living these lives and having to see him again, and again and why I have to stop him every time, so he can’t take you away from me. Not again. Never again.” That last is fierce, almost a growl.

There’s more. There’s a lot more. About destiny and dragons and swords and prophecy.  

It’s fucking insane is what it is. The scary, cold kind of crazy that sneaks up on you.

And Jesus, despite that Arthur wants nothing more than to believe. He wants to believe it with every fiber of his fucking being. Because, as ridiculous as it sounds, as impossible as it is, as ludicrous as he knows it must be, it’s easier than believing that the man he loves is a cold-blooded killer.

And what does that say about him?

“You believe me, don’t you?” Merlin says finally, after letting his words soak in, and his fingers hook on Arthur’s chin, and he tries to pull Arthur’s face away from the comforter. “Arthur, please. Look at me and tell me you believe me. Look at me and _see_ … Look at me and _remember_.”

Arthur’s stubborn a too long moment, afraid of what he’ll see if he lets himself look, but he wants so badly to find that truth. So he turns, reluctant, but he turns, let’s Merlin’s fingertips pull his head ‘round, feels them slide up over his cheek to guide his face.

He looks at Merlin.

Merlin’s eyes are golden, shimmering and molten and casting a soft glow over them both that limns and gilds everything with that warmth.

What the _fuck_. He wants to say. What the _absolute fuck_ , because when Merlin had talked about magic Arthur had been thinking in metaphor.

Although, there’s a part of him, some deeply buried voice calling himself a goddamn liar, because how many other times has he seen the seam of Merlin’s closed lids seeping halcyon light. Seen and never questioned. How many times has he excused the weird shit that happens around them, the easy way that things sometimes fall into place. Even the prosaic, even the profane: how their clothes seem to fly off, and the lube is always handy. Good Christ he’s a liar if he doesn’t admit this to himself now.

Though that doesn’t make it any less terrifying, and the ‘what the fuck’ is still clinging to his lips.

Still, he bites hard on his tongue, and he looks past that aurous gleam, to the soft depths of sea-washed blue beneath. Looks further still and sees…

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice is soft again, hesitant like he’s the one who’s afraid here. His fingers trace slowly over the curve of Arthur’s jaw, slipping down to rest on his throat, the meaty base of his thumb exerting the faintest pressure over Arthur’s pulse. Fingers from his other hand, the one that had been knotted in the blanket next to Arthur’s ear while he spoke, unclench and come to rest on the arc of trapezius beneath them, sliding inward still, thumbnail just tickling across Arthur’s Adam’s apple. He feels it scrape there when he swallows.

“Arthur, do you remember?”

He inhales, swallows hard again as he gulps in air, noting absently the way that Merlin’s hands ring the circumference of his throat.

“Arthur,” Merlin says again, pleading, and there’s a note of regret there. A sort of sorrow.

Breath catching in his lungs, so long they start burning with it and fresh, hot tears sting at his eyes; he holds it until he can’t any longer.

“Yes,” he gasps out, almost shocked, like he wasn’t expecting that to be the word expelled from his tongue. “Yes, Merlin,” he repeats, barely a whisper, “I do. I remember.”

Merlin doesn’t answer, not with words, not at first, but he pulls Arthur to him urgently, pressing their foreheads together. “Oh, thank god,” Merlin starts to mutter, low and ardent; fervent words over and over breathed against Arthur’s skin. “I knew you would… someday, I knew you’d remember me.”

Later, much later, he'll nod and say things like, "You know it's all a bit of a blur, Merlin. Why don't you tell me about it?" when Merlin asks if he remembers this knight or that adventure. And Merlin will laugh and tell his stories, and give a little approving nod when Arthur switches out all their cleaning products for nontoxic varieties with the excuse that it’s because he's concerned for the environment.

Later still, he will laugh when Merlin makes a joke about pubs and taverns and he'll say 'remind me' in a lighthearted way and not mind at all when Merlin calls him a ‘prat’ for accidentally putting their knife block in the box that he takes to the jumble sale.

Later he'll carefully avoid eye-contact with their overly flirtatious waiter and say things like, "Tell me again about Gaius or Gwen or Uther, because you know it's only _you_ that I remember with any clarity."

Now though, Arthur utters, “Yes,” with his eyes screwed tight against further tears and only a faint hint of hysteria in the word. “Yes… yes.”

Somewhere, so deep within him he imagines he can’t hear it screaming, is that voice still calling him a liar.

 


End file.
